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the first I’d have personally dragged down to the station.”
    Alex blinked. The redhead had a name as lyrical as her hair was remarkable. He found himself staring. Outright staring. His heartbeat was a steady hammering in his chest—not because of the angerhe’d only just stoked, but from a rush of sensual awareness.
    Before he could remember his mind, his manners, his office full of strangers, he strode toward the little woman. Standing over her made him feel like a towering giant, powerful and strong. That feeling did not dim when she jerked up her chin. If anything, the blood in his heart raged even faster.
    The shaky, eager way his body took note of her soap-fresh scent and trim waist was only going to complicate matters. Already he knew that he’d take thoughts of her to bed that evening. Pick over them. Analyze them. Relish them.
    She wrenched her arm away from the brute who held her captive. But she didn’t run or flinch or weep. Her bright green gaze collided with his. She stared him down with as much force and certainty as any man. Alex fisted his hands against a rush of pure, primal excitement. Sudden combustion.
    He had never felt its like.
    That she was a suspect only added an edge of violence to his body’s dizzying response.
    “Who are you?” he snapped. His voice was so low and curt as to sound wholly unfamiliar. “And what the hell did you do to my mill?”

Two
     
    P olly stared up at the man Constable Andrews had referred to as Mr. Christie. She had expected some equivalent of a desk clerk, stooped and thin. Or just the opposite—a fat man with heavy jowls and a pocket watch worth more than her parents’ tenement flat. Instead, Mr. Christie was the worst sort of challenge. He had caught her off guard.
    Where was his coat? And his neckcloth? She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a gentleman so informally dressed—if ever. The shock of finding a hint of chest hair poking out from the collar of such a fine, expensive shirt was dangerously distracting. The contrast of wild and civilized was as pronounced as the stark white cloth lying against his tanned neck.
    And despite her indignant temper, she had to admit that Agnes was right: he was a man born of Calton stock. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had ahard jaw designed to absorb life’s toughest punches.
    That didn’t mean he knew how to fight. Could he bully, cheat, terrorize? Oh, yes. Of that she had no doubt. No one became a mill master without some sort of underhanded ambition and trickery.
    But to win against her? She wouldn’t allow it.
    “I’m Polly Gowan. The policeman in your pocket said as much. And I sure as hell didn’t try to burn down the place where my family’s worked for three generations.” She lifted her brows. “I believe that’s longer than the Christies.”
    He scowled. Good. She enjoyed her victory if only to distract herself from his coloring. Tanned skin, yes. Hair like aged gold with bright tips the shade of ripe wheat—just the length to invite a woman’s eager hands. His eyes were amber and green swirled together in a permanent whirlpool, deep and wild. The perfect hazel.
    She crossed her arms, disgusted with herself, especially when the sting of her injured shoulder reminded her exactly which interests he represented. The distress of the day’s events had tossed her concentration to the four winds.
    “You’d be right,” he said, his words clipped. “But the Christie name hangs above the front door.”
    “Thanks only to your workers. Without the men manning the buckets, you’d have lost the entire mill today.”
    For the first time since striding toward her like a bull charging a red cape, he broke eye contact. “Is that right, Constables?”
    “Save your breath,” Polly said. “They won’t take a piss without Livingstone’s say-so.” She hooked a thumb back toward the man’s looming bulk.
    Mr. Christie raised his brows. Was that nearly . . . amusement? Of course not—not under